Chris Jordan - Torn

“This isn’t about cancer, Dr. Teeger.”

“That was just an example. People sue for all kinds of reasons. That’s their right under the law. It’s just we like to know if that’s what we’re dealing with.”

Shane sits back, thinks about it. Something is going on, he’s not sure what. “So far as I know, Mrs. Corbin is not planning a lawsuit at this time. Or any time. She simply wants to know if a mistake could have been made in the identification of her son’s remains.”

Hilly Teeger gives him a bright smile. “That’s great about no lawsuit being contemplated. Welcome news. Let me ask you, Mr. Shane, are you an expert in genetic identification? Is that why you’re representing Mrs. Corbin in this matter?”

“Not an expert, no,” Shane says. “I have worked with labs and with DNA identification experts in the past, while investigating crimes and also in preparing expert testimony. So I know just enough to get myself in trouble.”

“But you’re more or less current with lab protocols?”

He shakes his head. “No, I wouldn’t say that. Tests and procedures change so quickly it’s hard to keep up. Excuse me, Dr. Teeger, but was there a problem? You seem to know a lot about this particular case right off. Enough to be concerned about lawsuits.”

She sighs and gives him a pained look. “I’ve spoken to Mrs. Corbin personally. Several times. As recently as last week, as a matter of fact. I assured her, as I’m going to assure you, that I’m one hundred percent certain that the blood spatter we tested is a match for the little boy’s blood. The genetic markers are identical to a slide sample that was taken when he had his tonsils removed two years ago. Perfect match. We also tested against Mrs. Corbin’s DNA, at her request-and at no charge, by the way-and again determined that the samples taken from the crime scene are from her biological son. So even if the comparison sample from the hospital had been tainted or misfiled somehow, we still know that the samples taken from the gym belong to her son, no doubt about it.”

“So the blood is a slam dunk.”

“I’m not crazy about sports analogies in criminal matters, but yes. Slam dunk.”

“Same for the tissue?”

The beautiful doctor hesitates, covering her uncertainty with a wry smile. “Not so much,” she admits. “If this ever came to trial, and I don’t see how it could since the perpetrator died, we’d have to exclude the tissue match.”

Shane sits up straight. The time for slumping is over. “Excuse me?”

“That’s why we’ve been unable to comply with Mrs. Corbin’s request that we retest the tissue as well as the blood.”

Shane nods, wanting to give the impression he knows all about the retest request. “Yes,” he says. “And why exactly was that? Retesting is pretty routine in criminal cases.”

“This is embarrassing,” Hilly Teeger says, studying the top of her empty desk, avoiding eye contact. “After the initial test, which showed a match, the tissue samples were accidentally incinerated. We fired the tech, of course. Obvious violation of protocol, no excuse. Fortunately the blood spatter remained intact and we have in fact retested those samples. Twice.”

“But the tissue collected at the crime scene, that was incinerated?”

“Yes, it was.”

“So no tissue samples remain?”

“None.”

“Just a few drops of blood.”

She nods, a glum look dimming her beauty. “We’re very sorry,” she says. “It’s inexcusable, but accidents do happen.”

Randall Shane isn’t very sorry. Not in the least. He leaves GenData with a veritable bounce in his step.

Thinking, I’ll stop by the motel, do a little exploring online, and then I’ll go see Mrs. Corbin and tell her the news.

How good or bad the news will be depends on what he finds in the next few hours.

In Conklin, Colorado, Evangeline has an early-morning appointment with the devil. That’s how she thinks of Vash, full name Bagrat Kavashi. But really that isn’t his full name because he’s got all these impossible-to-pronounce clan names, too, plus the various cover names he used while running his own private militia back in the old country. Whatever, there’s no denying that he has a devilish smile, a way of holding his lips in a little pout that makes her feel all gushy inside.

Well, not gushy, exactly. More like horny, to be honest. Those big shoulders, those slim hips, the cocky confidence, and, yes, the deep streak of cruelty. Not that she’s allowed mere physical attraction to compromise her position as the voice of the Profit. That would never do. Tongues would wag and then, inevitably, tongues would have to be removed, one way or another. And Vash, as chief of security, would have to remove them. No, no, don’t go there. And certainly not before Arthur makes his final exit.

Still, she can’t resist standing against the light of the rising sun when he enters her suite. Her legs apart so that he can glimpse her trim, well-toned figure through the thin fabric of her white silk robe. It will be obvious that she’s naked under the robe. Letting him have a peek at heaven, just to keep him interested.

“’Scooze me,” he says in his cute little accent, eyebrows raised at her attire. “Am I the early bird? Apologies!”

“No need to apologize, Vash, dear. You and I, we needn’t stand on ceremony. Welcome back.”

She extends her slender hand, knowing he will do that Eastern European thing, not quite clicking his heels as he kisses the back of her hand, two fingers resting lightly upon the inside of her palm. Lingering just long enough so that she registers the soft imprint of his lips. Vash with his blue-black curl of Superman hair flopping playfully on his forehead, and the dark, calculating blaze of his eyes, she can practically hear his greedy little brain humming. Calculating the odds, counting his money, improving his status.

“Tell me everything,” she breathes.

As always, he takes her literally. “No worries. Perp is dead. No evidence to follow. So state police give up on school investigation.”

“I know about that, baby doll,” she says, containing her impatience. “What about the lab? And the private investigator?”

“Miss Hilly Teeger knows which butter to put on her bread, no problem. This Shane you warn me about, turns out he’s old guy, retired, he’s got no legal power. He’ll find nothing and go away very soon. If not, we take care of him, okay? For sure no problem.”

“What about the woman?”

“The crazy mother? That’s beautiful, because everybody, they think she really is crazy, you know? All the time she’s talking conspiracy this, conspiracy that, everybody out to get me, sure sign of crazy. But if crazy mother gets to be big problem, we make her stop. Probably she’s suicide. She puts head in oven, or maybe pipe from exhaust, something like that. Terrible tragedy. Very believable.”

“She was supposed to die in the explosion, looking for her son,” Evangeline points out, feeling petulant.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But this thing happen,” he says, not the least bit sheepish. “Nothing goes completely the right way, okay? Important thing, we can fix if necessary. I got people in place, no problem.”

Evangeline smiles. “That’s what I love about you, Vash, dear. You always have people in place. There’s always no problem.”

He flashes his wolflike grin. “Helps when you own big company, yes?”

“Oh yes,” she says, sidling an inch or two closer. “That helps.”

I’m watching the tube at ten in the morning when Randall Shane finally returns, a laptop case in one hand and a big grin on his face.